“If that is His intention, then there is nothing we can do about it, except pray for a reprieve.”
“And if it is not, then we should see what we can do. You as well. Or do you prefer to sit in contemplation while all of creation is destroyed?”
“What do you want of me?”
“You know about astronomy. See if you can find the source of this in the heavens, and try to discover from whence it comes. You know something of medicine, as do many Jews. Consult with others and see if some way of preventing this monstrous sickness can be found. There was, if I am right, a great plague in Athens during the Great War.”
Gersonides nodded. “It is described in Xenophon, of which I have one of the few copies.”
“And another in Constantinople in the time of Justinian.”
Gersonides nodded again.
“Study them. See how they brought it to an end then. They knew more than us; we might learn from them.”
“In that case I must return home.”
“No. I do not permit it.”
“I have to consult my books and my charts. I can do nothing here.”
“They will be brought. My entire library and the resources of the curia will be placed at your disposal. You may have anything you want.”
“I want to return to my home.”
“Except for that,” Clement said with a wintry smile. “Do not force the issue. I have been kind, and will reward you well. Do not make me angry and never challenge an order you receive from me.”
It was a revealing moment. The affable pontiff, willing to speak politely with a man such as Gersonides, showing real signs of learning and concern, yet a Christian prince nonetheless. Their positions were clear; the nature of the courtesy clear also. Gersonides bowed his head.
“I will make a list,” he said. “But I insist that a message be sent to my servant immediately, lest she be afraid for my health.”
“The messenger who collects your papers will tell her.”
A nod. “Please make sure he reassures her.”
And the rabbi was dismissed. The shock of what had happened, and the impact of the fresh, cold night air when he left that room was so intense that he fainted on the staircase and had to be carried to his lodgings by soldiers, ordered to do so by their captain, for they thought he, too, had succumbed to the plague, and their first instinct was to throw him into the moat.
THE HISTORICAL RECORD is silent on the nature of diplomatic missions in the late antique period; unless they were exceptionally grand, little remains to tell how they were organized. Nonetheless, it can be assumed safely that Manlius Hippomanes, when he began the journey north to the court of the Burgundians, made his entourage appear as impressive as possible. He knew, certainly, that King Gundobad was known for being cunning, and violent, but knew also that he had been in contact with the Roman world for long enough to appreciate the fruits of civilization. Gold and silver and jewels and fine cloth he did not take; these the king had in abundance, more than Manlius could assemble. To have taken such presents would merely have underscored his weakness, shown how little he had to offer. Changed days indeed from the time of his forebears, the sheer magnitude of whose embassies could in themselves awe a barbarian princeling into submission by the easy demonstration of excess. Worship me and all this shall be yours. Rome had survived and prospered for centuries by using the devil’s words.
But no longer; now greater subtlety was required. Manlius could not project force, or wealth; there was little left of either. So he decided to strike at the king’s weakest spot, his lack of cultivation. Instead of jewels he took books; instead of soldiers he took musicians; instead of a discourse to strike fear and generate submission, he prepared one of gross flattery, drawing parallels between the king and Augustus, noting the emperor’s love of learning, and how his fame grew through the praise of men of letters. Let us agree, and I will do the same for you; that was the message, and hardly a subtle one. It was the balance that was important; Manlius needed a style that would awe through its complexity and sophistication but that could still be understood.
It would be an abuse of learning, a disgusting display, a shameful exercise. To praise an emperor and receive a reward, as he had done years ago during Majorian’s brief and hopeful reign, that was one thing. Wheedling a barbarian chieftain was very different. Manlius took few of his lettered friends with him; he also took few priests, for the king was an Arian, and the last thing he wanted was some self-righteous cleric, burning with zeal to do God’s work, trying to convert him, then denouncing him when he failed. The man’s wife adhered to Rome; if she could not bring him around, a clerical harangue was unlikely to succeed either. But it could make him angry.
All this he did on Sophia’s advice; he had talked the matter over with her. “To throw away the world to preserve the purity of literary style seems foolish,” she had said severely. “You say this man has ruled with justice and firmness. That he was educated at Rome. That he is a man of moderate desires and tastes. To be cunning is no great failing in a ruler, I think. So why should he not be praised? You and your predecessors often delivered panegyrics to emperors who were distinguished only by their lusts, their violence, and their greed.”
“Those were delivered to praise the office, and encourage the man to live up to it,” Manlius said. “There is surely little comparison.”
“There is every comparison. To praise an unjust man and refrain from lauding a just one is foolish. When, also, you desire something from the just man it is doubly so. Give him his due.”
Manlius saw the wisdom of her advice, she who had always been so wise, and took his leave.
“I wish you the best of fortune, my dear,” she said with a smile. “Do not forget that in everything you do, you must stand above faction and petty interest, and tread the road of virtue.”
“Diplomacy and virtue do not make easy companions,” he commented.
“No. But that is why you were chosen. Remember all you have learned. You know what is the right, and what is not.”
He took his leave of her, and as he left, she picked up a book and began to read it. He caught one last glimpse of her through the window, sitting quietly in the courtyard, bathed in soft morning sun, her head nodding, already absorbed by the work she was studying.
ONE MORNING in early 1942, Julien insisted on a meeting with Marcel, whom in fact he saw only rarely at work, although they still met on occasion for a meal. He was a menial functionary, Marcel was in charge of the whole département. This time he insisted; went to the Préfecture first thing in the morning and waited, pacing up and down until he appeared, stumping along the corridor, battered briefcase in his hand.
“I need to talk to you,” he said as Marcel nodded to him in surprise. “It’s very important.”
“It must be,” the préfet commented as he showed him into his office. A grand room, though badly needing a new coat of paint. That would have to wait until after the war. “What is it that gets you so agitated?”
“Have you seen this?” Julien said, waving a folder in front of him.
“I don’t know. What is it?”
“A list of books. To be taken out of libraries and destroyed. ‘Degenerate literature,’ it says. Marcel, they cannot be serious about this.”
Marcel took the paper, fished his round, horn-rimmed spectacles from the top pocket of his jacket, and peered at the first page. “Hmm,” he said without much interest.
“Did you know of this?”
“Of course I did. I also remember that a similar order came through some six months ago and you did nothing about it whatsoever. Nor, it seems, did anyone else anywhere in France. So now they’ve lost patience. That’s what happens if you’re obstructive. If you’d cooperated then and put all those books in store, they would have forgotten about it. Now they want more books, and they want them pulped.”